


Shards

by FloraStuart



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 15:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloraStuart/pseuds/FloraStuart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of him keeps thinking <i>didn’t we just do this?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Shards

**Author's Note:**

> I am procrastinating terribly on finishing my big bang fic. I am also about halfway through rewatching S2 and _could not_ get this image out of my head. Tag for 2.09 Point Blank.

A part of him keeps thinking _didn’t we just do this?_

The smell of the hospital is the same, burned coffee and some astringent, aggressively lemon-scented cleaners. The clock on the wall could read twelve noon or twelve midnight; harsh fluorescent lights and no windows give a sense of time frozen, of being trapped in a day without sun or darkness, a day that doesn’t end. Neal could close his eyes and imagine they’re waiting on Peter to be discharged, almost hear the night nurse saying _poison was a shock to his system_ , saying _got the antidote in time_ , saying _needs to rest and recover going to be fine_.

Almost.

They’d known Peter was going to be fine long before they arrived at the hospital; all Neal had to do was _get to him_ , and get him down to the ambulance. After that the paramedics took over and within minutes Peter was fully conscious, breathing and speaking, awake enough to lecture, _do what’s right_ and _let the pieces fall_. At the hospital it was only a matter of waiting and letting him sleep.

That was nearly two weeks ago.

It could almost be the same lounge; he remembers a little table like the one in the corner, piled with magazines. He and Diana played cards on it from one until around three AM; he’d been too tired to cheat. He remembers Diana sleeping in a chair like the one beside the nurses’ station, while the monitors along the hall beeped a soft chorus of boredom and monotony and crashing relief.

The chairs with the cracked vinyl cushions are the same, the grey institutional linoleum, the walls hung with bland abstract pastels that blur when his eyes try to focus. But this time the soft beeping of the monitors sounds like a warning, low and tense and steady as a countdown.

This time Diana isn’t sleeping.

It’s a different night nurse, this time; she was brisk and efficient, greeting them as they came in, grey hair in tight curls and warm brown eyes; he thinks she was kind. But she said things like _missed by two millimeters_ , like _in surgery at least another four hours_ , like _lost too much blood_ and _too soon to tell_. (He has no idea what relation Peter said Mozzie is to him, but she knows to keep him informed.)

She said _his heart stopped when they brought him in_ and Neal’s mind shut down after that, something shorting out in a flare of panic, unable to process any of what followed. His brain locked into a loop like a skipped recording, over and over, _his heart stopped_.

The world is distant, held at arm’s length; nothing can reach him past those three words.

_His heart stopped_.

He tries to count the hours he’s been awake, but it’s been too many for his mind to handle simple arithmetic. (He didn’t sleep much last night, either.)

Diana and Peter are taking shifts, he thinks. Keeping watch. From her chair she can see him, moving from one end of the lounge to the other. He wanders, aimless; he’ll find himself on the other side of the room, staring at the wall, without knowing how he got there, his mind fumbling to figure out what to do next before he can turn around. (Diana tried to say _sit down, rest_ , several times; Peter tried once to convince him to eat something.)

He’s not sure what they’re watching for, what they expect him to do; he’s hardly capable of forming a coherent thought before the night nurse’s voice breaks in again, _his heart stopped_ , and he has to stop and think and remember how to breathe. (Or maybe they still think whoever shot Moz is after him, too.)

He can feel Diana’s eyes on him.

He leans against the back of a chair, wincing as stiff muscles lock up, inexplicably sore; he blinks and his eyelids feel like sandpaper, rough and gritty and sleepless. There’s a cart beside the chair, stacked trays on the way back to the cafeteria, dishes and the remains of some bland meal going cold. The water cooler gurgles, unexpectedly loud, in the corner.

Then Diana is standing in front of him, blocking his path as he turns; she’s holding out three pills in one hand and a paper cup in the other.

_His heart stopped_. 

“I know,” she says, though he can’t remember speaking out loud. “They’re doing everything they can.”

The words are heavy with compassion; he feels it like a weight against his chest, squeezing his lungs. She doesn’t move. She expects something from him. It takes a beat to figure out what.

He swallows the pills; he has no idea what they are. He gulps a mouthful of water and coughs. It’s startlingly cold. She takes the cup from him before he drops it.

“It’s just Advil,” she says. He must be staring at her in blank incomprehension. “For your shoulder.”

He rotates both shoulders forward, then back, experimental; the right aches sharply at the motion. His whole right side and half his back feels like one massive bruise. (His brain decides it's not up to even trying to remember what he did to it.)

Diana says, strangely gentle, “You went through a window, Neal.”

He blinks. And yes, he does remember that part. He remembers the sound of glass shattering, the wooden frame splintering, a crash that seemed to wipe out all the world (like an explosion, like flames roaring up behind him) but he doesn’t remember any pain.

“I’m not surprised,” she says, and again he can’t remember speaking. Something isn’t right; he can’t tell what’s now or then, what’s inside his head or out of it. “Enough adrenaline will do that.”

He has the strangest feeling that he’s not all _here_ , like between them Kate and Mozzie held everything of him that was real, like the last of him is slowly slipping away in that OR down the hall. Diana is still watching, her eyes soft and grave; this close, the weight of her gaze is an anchor, holding him. 

Then she frowns. And he must have imagined it, because this is _Diana_ , but for half a second she looks like she’s about to cry. Or hug him. Or punch him in the face.

(He doesn’t think he could handle any of those; Diana crying is just _wrong_ , and he knows she could wipe the floor with him on his best day; he thinks a hug right now might shatter him completely.)

Instead her face goes blank as she picks up the small trash can by the wall and sets it on the chair beside him.

“You have glass,” she says, and her voice is soft and oddly flat. “In your hair.”

She reaches toward him slowly, like she might approach some hurt wild thing. He stares for a moment and then lets his head fall forward. Her fingers are warm against his forehead, threading gently through his hair; sharp fragments fall into the trash can, rustling the plastic liner. His eyes close; she says, “ _dammit_ , Neal”, low and half-choked. (He _must_ be imagining the catch in her voice.)

She’s thorough, her fingers combing carefully, stroking lightly against his scalp. She seems to know this is all the physical comfort he can stand right now; she knows, too, when to draw back.

“Better,” she says at last, quietly, but in something closer to her normal tone. And then, “There’s a coffee machine down the hall.” Tilting her head toward the other side of the nurses’ station. “Come on.”

The coffee will be burnt, but it’s caffeine, and it’s enough to hold off sleep a while longer. (The thought of sleep right now is terrifying.)

She walks down the hall beside him like a bodyguard; she watches like she’s afraid something unthinkable will happen if she lets him out of her sight.

He stays close to her; he’s not at all sure she’s wrong.


End file.
